Flyte pulled up her mother’s name in the contacts book of her phone half a dozen times before finally hitting the call button.
‘Hi there, how are you?’ she said brightly on hearing Sylvia’s voice. There was a moment of humiliating silence. ‘It’s Phyllida, Mother.’
‘Ah, Phyllida. What a pleasant surprise . . . You do know my birthday is next month?’
Flyte clenched her jaw, determined to make an effort. ‘Is it an inconvenient time?’ She found herself adopting her mother’s clipped and polished diction. Sylvia was ‘of good lineage’, as she would have put it, and over the years had made it clear in countless subtle ways that in accepting Pops as her husband she had ‘married down’.
‘No, no, I have ten minutes or so before the gardener is due.’ An awkward silence. ‘So . . . is there any news on the divorce?’ Her attempt at empathy was almost humorous.
‘Oh, you know, it’s winding its way through the system.’
‘Such a shame. Matt was a very . . . agreeable young man, although I could have told you from the start that he was the type who would run to fat.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Anyway, at least you two are still on speaking terms. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘And I must say, it’s a blessing really, that there are no children to argue over.’
‘A blessing . . . ?’ It was like a physical blow. Holding the phone away from her, Flyte closed her eyes so she could better picture Poppy’s face. When she brought it back to her ear her mother was saying:
‘I simply mean that children can cause trouble in a divorce, can’t they? All those sad men you hear about, having to take their children to McDonald’s.’ She said McDonald’s the way others might have said Auschwitz.
‘I consider myself blessed that I had a child, Mother. Even if she didn’t survive. And I’ve been wondering lately – why didn’t you support me when I wanted a ceremony for her? Instead of siding with Matt?’
‘I just thought that it could only make things worse for you, darling.’
‘Worse? How the fuck could it make things worse? My baby daughter died!’
The echoes of the F-bomb reverberated in the silence.
‘Now, Phyllida—’
‘You know what I hope, Mother? That I take after Pops and not you in the human-fucking-being department.’
After hitting ‘end call’ Flyte stood staring at the screen in amazement. She had never sworn at her mother before, nor hung up on her – had always ducked any confrontation, in fact, just as Pops had.
It felt rather good.
She celebrated with a cup of Earl Grey and a chocolate Hobnob from the treats tin. What had made her call her mother in the first place?
It was tied up with feeling sorry for Cassie, she decided. Having been robbed of both her parents at such a young age, it was only natural that the girl was desperate to save her father from the lifelong parental purdah imposed by his crime. Witnessing her need had made Flyte guiltily aware that she had a mother living with whom she barely spoke.
Well, she had done her best, and it had ended predictably.
As she washed up her cup, she went over Cassie Raven’s encounter with DCI Capaldi again. On paper, it was feasible that an under-employed senior-ranking officer in Professional Standards might have a bee in his bonnet about a new generation of detectives who never set foot in a mortuary; on the other hand, she couldn’t believe that his encounter with Cassie was pure coincidence.
It was more likely that Capaldi had learned of Cassie’s freelance research activities during his investigation of Gerry Hobbs and Spud Neville and decided to look into their handling of the Kath Raven case. But if so, why fabricate an excuse to attend the mortuary rather than approaching Cassie through official channels? She couldn’t quite dismiss the feeling that his behaviour was a bit weird.
Whatever his motives, Flyte could only hope and pray that Capaldi wouldn’t uncover her connection with Cassie and realise that she’d been lying about her ‘accidental’ accessing of Callum Raven’s record.
Anyway, as Pops would have said, it put the tin hat on any idea of her quizzing Gerry Hobbs about the missing swab.